


The long (and weary) Road

by FactorialRabbits, Torpi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Comedy, Gen, Scars, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torpi/pseuds/Torpi
Summary: The story of the year long march from Gondolin to the Mouths of Sirion, reconstructed from surviving fragments. Piecing the past together is never easy.Featuring Lost Voronwë, Tuor The Rock and many annoyed OCs.Main character: Missing Pieces.
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Tuor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	The long (and weary) Road

**Author's Note:**

> 'This embedded art was made by the lovely FactorialRabbits, listed as a co-author, who has given me a great prompt and has helped shape this story. The full sized version of the artwork can be found [here](https://www.deviantart.com/factorialrabbits/art/Trials-of-the-Gondolindrim-853318778).
> 
> Please check creator's style is turned on before reading; while readable without the font changes, they are used to distinguish writer at times.

**First age, 516, A Mountain in Beleriand**

`Ulmo help me`, Nestedir thought darkly, `if I hear that flea-bitten Mortal say `follow the river, Ulmo will show us the way~` one more time I won’t be responsible for the consequences.`

People were tense after seven days of forced march in hostile territory and many were struggling to walk. There were too many injured or in shock or too young, so they couldn’t afford to cut a clear path. The enemy was everywhere and this situation forced them to take a circuitous route that seemed lately to get them further away from their objective.

As usual, he started counting in his head. `Seventeen with serious gut wounds, nine with severe head injuries, twenty with missing fingers, legs or arms, three blinded completely, fourteen with serious damage to their lungs, and the rest have more ‘minor’ injuries. Minor, hah. Egnas has the chills, as do another thirty. All of us are wounded. Even Eärendil has gotten sick. The road darkens and we will get picked one by one until in we will become a trail of corpses, like back home. Ai, Gondol-.`

His silent lamentations were interrupted by Tuor, who had started an annoying song he called a lullaby, which _of course_ was about a river, a river-daughter to be exact. The song would have been quite nice, but the endless repetition wormed its way into his brain and coiled there. He couldn’t get rid of it, and his thoughts flew again to their annoying leader and his minor injuries. ‘Here is one who could have been a bit more injured and we would have all been happier` he thought darkly.

A quick look to his right to Brethildir, whose hand was twitching on the sword’s hilt, confirmed his opinion. Brethildir had a dangerous glint in his eyes and seemed to be calculating the best trajectory to inflict maximum damage on the bobbing head of the mortal in front of the column.

`Don’t chuck your sword!` He advised. `Use something more expendable.`

`Like Voronwë?` replied Brethildir darkly, fingering the hilt.

`A rock would be more aerodynamic.` replied Nestedir.

`But he will be more satisfying`, retorted Brethildir.

Away on the left side, Legolas, his ears pricked to eavesdrop as always, laughed.

`Their collision would probably destroy space-time continuum`, Legolas remarked.

 _Still optimistic after the whole fiasco,_ Nestedir thought darkly.

`And following the river is greeeat` Legolas added in a sing-song mocking voice.

`Magnanimous words from someone useless, scout. How does it feel for a vital part of your job to become obsolete?` Nestedir asked darkly.

`Well, I think Voronwë is right. We do need to take things in stride and stop worrying so much. One day we’ll look back to this and laugh`, tossed Legolas over his shoulder. He gave a cheery salute towards the head of the column and sauntered to the end to help (more likely gossip) with some friends while Nestedir and Brethildir looked disgustedly after him.

Sarendil was struggling to walk because his right foot had been partially crushed by a falling piece of masonry. Legolas came to help him walk and his words cheered Sarendil up: `We’re stopping`. With Legolas’ help, Sarendil sat on the ground, and while Nestedir and his younger cousin checked his bandages, he took out his journal and started writing. A bit further, Pengolodh, his dominant hand broken and his other hand bandaged from a deep cut in his palm watched his pen restlessly.

* * *

**Fourth Age, 1486, University of Gondor**

Moldin shifts uncomfortably in front of his professor.

Nöddaç sifts through his thesis proposal, face impassive. After he finishes, he crosses his hands and looks at him. He looks like an eagle waiting to swoop down and kill his prey.

`Is this related to the latest genealogical craze?`, he finally asks, slowly enunciating each syllable and Moldin’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach, a nest of writhing snakes that make him feel like throwing up. Even after more than twenty years, Nöddaç still has a hint of Eastern accent.

Moldin starts talking and his voice squeaks, so he clears his throat, takes a deep breath, plants his feet firmly on the floor, hands at his sides ‘ready to punch or block’, and faces his adversary without flinching.

`If you have looked through the papers sir, you have seen that the flight of refugees from Gondolin is a theme that hasn’t been fully understood in its implications. I was on the field and I was able to corroborate evidence that hasn’t been presented before and shows a different take than what we know from official sources, namely Pengolodh of Gondolin. I think his official papers were more…diplomatic…` his squeaky voice trails off under his professor’s gaze. He clears his throat again and waits.

`Your approach, no, your findings seem to be quite controversial.`, says Nöddaç. `Your theme as well. You talk about the destruction of a city, refugees, Gondolin scouting tactics and your interpretation of certain historical characters is quite...different..` he accentuates each point by raising a finger and Moldin feels his head get fuzzy with fear of rejection.

`Why is that sir?` he asks tightly. `Also, my name is now Adûnabêl.` His voice still cracks on the last part and Nöddaç smiles thinly.

`Tell me again, _Moldin,_ how old are you? Fifteen? `

Moldin flushes and answers` Twenty-five, sir.` His voice, for the first time in this conversation sounds normal.

`Adûnabêl...West-Light in Adûnaic. I thought only young children still do the Numenorean naming thing. Do you perhaps miss those times? Most go for Sindarin. Did you want to be more…subtle?` Nöddaç asks, his accent stronger, making his words mocking. `You seem ready to throw away your roots. Too low for you, to be known as Dunlending?`

`No sir`, answers Moldin. He is choking. `Should I leave then?` he asks miserably.

`No, I never said _I_ was against it. It has a certain…contemporary feel to it. Others might feel you imply Gondor will fall soon to invaders and we will all become refugees and it might make things difficult for you. Nevertheless I _root_ for you.`

Moldin ignores the stressed word, but blushes in shame.

`I do not think Gondor will fall soon sir, despite unrest and incursions from the east.`

‘If you compare it with the beginning of the age, it has declined a lot. It is only a matter of time until our city will be overrun and become a memory. In that sense, preserving knowledge from earlier times is paramount. Your thesis is very good. Take advantage of our libraries while you still can.`

`Yes sir, thank you!’ Moldin exclaims light-headed from relief. He starts to leave when Nöddaç stops him.

`You should look in lord Adlegor’s private library. He has a compilation from late Third Age, made after a direct copy of Pengolodh’s clean notes written at the Mouth of Sirion, after the March. It might be helpful to you`.

`If we can’t cross-reference it with anything else, isn’t it a big question on its authenticity, sir?`

`Your cross-reference might be your research until now. Look over it and then we’ll talk again`.

‘Yes sir!`, replies Moldin, giddy.

* * *

**2580 Fourth Age**

**Fragments saved from a chest containing among other papers, a thesis proposal, found in the ruins of Gondor’s renowned university, in 2560 Fourth Age. Papers are dated around 1500 Fourth Age. […] indicates illegible writing and/or missing fragments. The original papers have annotations written by a third author.**

**Most damaged pages presented here:**

....The first and most accurate description of the journey of the refugees from Gondolin and their trip to Sirion....Compiled from various original sources, archaeological remains and personal journals, plays and subsequent chronicles written a short time before departing to the west. Most have not survived the Sack of Sirion, but a few were taken to Belfalas and some were saved from the wreckage though not in pristine condition. Additional sources corroborating this trip have been taken from the eastern part....surprising wealth of information...objects indicating direct contact with Gondolidrim refugees.

Excerpt from a guard’s notebook, scribbled hastily between stops has been miraculously preserved...It has faded figures drawn inside....they are quite abstract but we can identify some details of clothing that seem to be tribal...knots language, if reconstructed in its earliest form, would give great insights...have been forgotten, but are still present in bracelets, necklaces and some braiding styles from...

.....Sindarin name found on a cartographer’s back map of of the now sinked Beleriand, dating FA. Found in tomb coordina ...

...Object found in a tomb cca. 450 FA, Subject: Male 99 years old, in full regalia. On his chest was a curved dagger of 25 cm with an elvish inscription and a white scarf made from silk that was still intact.It glimmered faintly and had small crushed diamonds woven into it. In night-time it shows the Sky River and constellations depending on the season. When it flutters in the night breeze it gives a small tinkling sound. Further analysis revealed it was a technique, dye and pattern favoured by gondolodrim weavers.

...Further south, in another tomb, a women of 80 years... with a hair ornament pertaining to the same period. After consulting the experts, it is believed to be an heirloom, and it is believed to have originally belonged to the lord of the House of the Tree.

...Another heirloom this one even further away, in the western parts of the Sea of Núrnen, a golden bracelet. Twenty tombs were found were the subjects had braiding styles and hair nets close to Gondolodrin style. In the same parts, nowdays...ceremonial braiding before wedding is done in an approximation of the warrior braids of the Gondolodrim.

Legends in these parts talk of a blond haired spirit child, born of a mountain goddess and a human man, who travels with a host with magical helpers (also called MAP Stealers in some versions), with shining eyes. The spirit child alternatively punishes or rescues lost travellers. In these legends, a secondary character is the figure of The Guide, one cursed to not find the way. `Blessed by Ulmo` appears to be swearword in these parts.

Also, on the back cover of a book from the SA (n.tr.: Second Age), titled _Recipes from Belfalas,_ written by an elf named Sarendil, we have a dedication written in the author’s hand, confirming contact between Gondolodrim refugees and people from the east. `For my old friend who would have preferred some recipes that include spicy Baba Ghanoush roasted over open campfire, and preferably accompanied by coffee, it is in the works, don’t worry, Nestedir.`

Most importantly, short fragments from pages written during the march were found in possession of lord Adlegor…The authorship of these pages has been a matter of dispute. The information gleaned from these fragments sheds light on a dark period of history, and we can finally verify certain facts that have been around, but have proven to be false. All entries have been compiled together with additional explanations when necessary. These fragments were initially ascribed to Pengolodh, but evidence from lord Adlegor shows that they were written by different hands. The original transcription is faithful to the original, down to letter shape and legibility.

Now…Preliminary comments and facts found during the research.....Whether or not Morgoth had dragons is debatable, but from the journals it was revealed to be a fabrication made by one Tuor to cheer up his sick child during the forced march. This person, seemingly a “stranger”, (different nationality?), an immigrant in an homogenous society, nevertheless found himself in a leadership position and was resented by some of the others. This is evident in such appellatives as which devolved with time: `sick mortal’, `flea-bitten creature`.

Another most maligned person is the head scout, with the name Voronwë. Despite successfully evading enemies on all sides, he was much disliked by the guard captain, for “presuming he knows where the next bend in the road is”. This captain seems to suffer from chronic fatigue, hallucinations and bipolar syndrome.

From the journal entries, other elves could be diagnosed with things ranging from depression, PTSD, (Tuor), sacrificial hero complex (Voronwë), manipulative (spouse Idril Celebrindal), and anger issues (most of the guards). Fragments are arranged in a somewhat chronological order but err-… -ibble.

**There is also a picture of a group of people marching in the mountains, in very good condition. Analysis showed the blue and yellow pigments are unique and the colour cannot be replicated.**

****

**Excerpts from journals, authorship unknown (most probably multiple authorship) written during The Long March**

_ Fragment almost illegible, Authorship unknown. _

“a truthful and objective`- here it is underlined violently `account of our various “adventures” during our fleeing from the terror of Gondolin to the terrors on the way. Nevertheless, we couldn’t run from Tuor. He kept talking even in his sleep; even when we slept, closing his eyes and distancing himself from the world, we heard him.`

_ Fragment written in exilic Quenya, letters almost runic in their shape. Author feels angry. It is most probably the Captain of the Guard, Nestedir from the House of the Swallow. Titles are given by a scribe from 3rd Age, transcribed here in slanted letters to separate them from the original. _

* * *

**Fragments which are apparently copied from an older transcription of the original documents, some in very good condition, but with many missing pages:**

_In which an elven captain thinks of kinslaying_

I am grieving for the destruction of their beautiful city, for all the friends and kin that were slain. We were limping grimly through enemy limes with children, wounded people and not enough guards to protect them. It had all the ingredients for a perfect tragedy, why was I then feeling only irritation and annoyance? Probably because both the lead scout and the leader of this sorry lot are two idiots. One immortal and one not, for variety. And they had teamed together in the past and so had an admirable working chemistry together. Like two hot molten metals that can seamlessly seal without any fault line. Too bad they were driving everybody else crazy. We had tried to follow the normal procedures, with guards walking the length of the column to help and make the civilians and wounded keep a steady pace, and alert if somebody’s condition worsens. The rear guard was formed, ready to take attacks from behind. The front was also heavily armed and split in two groups, one at the head of the column and the other two kilometres ahead. Scouts were sent to analyse the terrain further, with Voronwë as Lead.

Unfortunately, this has proved impossible to maintain, and only partly because of the enemy. Oh, we had fogs, sudden attacks, creeping darkness, but Voronwë always disappeared from the scouts and found himself lost so we needed to find **him** as well. In the end we closed ranks and Voronwë got to lead from the front. Then things started to get strange. He always seems confident about the way but the places we ended up were too random. Maps have become useless, since Voronwë apparently does not care about pesky things like space-time continuum. If only his ability would get us to Sirion faster, but it seems to be the opposite. And Tuor is just as bad. He tried the leading position and insisted on following the first river we came across. After two days and nights of walking on uneven, shifting terrain, the river disappeared under the earth. I almost strangled him then. Now Voronwë leads again since the last time he managed to take us into an enemy camp and then out, and somehow managed to get us out when we were being surrounded. Our target is still not closer than before, so my patience their antics is getting thin.

 **`** Maybe they are doing this to help us forget our own horrors`, Larcaion told me, reading my thoughts (most likely my writing). `He’s telling stories to Eärendil so he feels better.` I grimace and stop. The wounded await.

* * *

_**Fragment written in a trembling hand, most probably because of the wounds. Author Unknown, probably Pengolodh. Certain identification impossible, since writing is hard to read.** _

_In which we take a leaf from our merry band and don’t go anywhere_

Today I hold a pen again in four weeks three days fourteen hours twenty five minutes and ten seconds. I must write to silence the thoughts raging in my head. The path of dreams is close to me. I either sleep like the dead, in darkness, my eyelids heavy over my eyes, or I get waking nightmares of the Fall of Gondolin. I must calm myself. I must analyse all things from all perspectives to make an objective account. I must understand. I will start with Nestedir’s angry ramblings we have all gotten sick of. If I manage to write his speech from fifteen different perspectives I will probably manage to sleep. I hope I will be able to watch the events I went through objectively. Unbiased first hand accounts are paramount. I have just become a Lore Master. I must act like one. So while we stay and wait, next to the river Tuor took as a guide for the past six days, and which has disappeared into the ground like our hope for our city, I will write.

* * *

** Fragment most probably written by Pengolodh. Identification made by comparing writing sample to known writings by his hand. The match was 90 percent. **

_In which Tuor says follow the ~~leader~~ river and the elves Keep Calm and March On_

Sarendil whistled and Little Sparrow appeared in front of him grinning widely. In his hands he had two sweet apples. He gave them both with a bow, then started running around him flapping his hands around.

Sarendil smiled and showed him his newest drawings. Little Sparrow stopped immediately and started reading, giggling silently at Nestedir’s antics.

 _Your drawings have improved a lot._ He signed.

 _Nestedir doesn’t think so_ , Sarendil signed back, adding scout-signal for fake and disappointment.

 _You are a very quick learner._ Little Sparrow continued, more subdued, only his fingers moving. _You learnt my sings very quickly and even taught me how to improve and make my own._

 _It was nothing. I had a very good teacher_. Sarendil signed back cheerily and ruffled Little Sparrow’s head. _**You** learnt quenya knot-writing quickly. _

_I had a very good teacher._ Little Sparrow replied, smugly replicating his exact gestures, who are too big for him. _I am not very good at using it yet. I know the quenya knot type because it is quite similar to ours, but I make mistakes and I only write in my language, even if I use your knotting._

 _Why does it bother you?_ Asked Sarendil.

_I wish to make something for you and the others. Could you help me and tell me if I make the knots correctly? I want to write in quenya._

_I am jealous. There are others receiving presents?_ Sarendil joked.

 _I feel I got to know them through you. And if they are your friends they are nice and brave,_ signed Little Sparrow. His chest heaved and his cheeks were pink.

 _Take it easy, little bird,_ signed Sarendil. _You must not extert yourself lest you stop breathing._

 _Stop breathing?_ Little Sparrow asked inquiringly.

_You know what I mean. Your lungs and airways are damaged. Stress of any kind makes them close up._

_I know, I am not a baby._

_No, you are a child._

_Not for long,_ Little Sparrow replied quickly. 

_Oh? How old are you then?_

_Nine,_ little Sparrow said excitedly. _I will soon be an apprentice to my grandpa._

 _Nine is quite a lot indeed_ , Sarendil signaled back gravely.

Little Sparrow scowled and took out a colourful mess of ropes. They were made from tree bark and were quite stiff.

 _Won’t your fingers bleed?_ Asked Sarendil concerned.

 _It is fine_ , the child said brusquely. _They do not fray easily. And for a gift to be meaningful you need to have some sacrifice._

 _Those are big words,_ observed Sarendil. _Your aunt is quite formidable._

Little Sparrow gave a small smile and started knotting. Sarendil watched the surroundings humming. From time to time, Little Sparrow asked for an odd word.

In the end, his fingers were raw, but he has knotted enough arm bracelets to give Sarendil.

 _Which one is mine?_ He asked curiously.

 _Remember when we first met?_ asked Little Sparrow. _We couldn’t understand each other so I started drawing stick figures to explain where my camp is. You are a great warrior and yet you stay with me. So this one is for you, if you would take it,_ he added suddenly uncertain.

Sarendil looked at it. It was brown and green, with pale pink woven into it. A golden glitter snakes its way around three sides.

 _So I am best warrior and best friend of Little Sparrow, and keeper of the chronicles on top of that?_ He said amused. _You gave me so many titles, I am honoured._ He added formally, bowing with his fist over his chest. _And I see you wish for us to meet again on unknown roads. You must be eager for everybody to get lost together._

Little Sparrow nodded, jumped happily five times and gave him the other bracelets.

_These are for Brethildir, Nestedir, Voronwë, Eärendil and Tuor. Eärendil is close to my age, is he not?_

_He is, indeed. Thank you. You should go back soon, the day is ending. Give greetings to your aunt from me._ Sarendil signed.

 _I better not,_ Little Sparrow signed cheekily. _She already thinks you are courting her, this will make athe whole clan come for your head._ He ran around Sarendil three times as good-bye and ran towards the camp, leaving the elf thunderstruck.

He sat back down, looked at the bracelets and started laughing out loud. Voronwë had the titles Explorer and Great Scout (with the knot for `great `dangerously close to southern knot for `lost`), and as describing words: ` I know the way!`

Tuor had Rock and Leader, with `follow the` inserted among them. Leader was too close to river to be a coincidence. Nestedir had one with Captain and a message that could be read as either `Violence is the answer, or Violence is **not** the answer. The ambiguity made him grin. Brethildir had `Keep Calm and March On` written straightforwardly, and Eärendil had a well wishes small bracelet.

Sarendil got up and started limping back to his camp. The wounds seemed lighter today.

_In which we meet a Lake, a desert and the mountains behind Gondolin_

**Missing fragment**

* * *

**Fragment most likely written by Sarendil, one of the guards during the march.**

_In which somebody learns anger management_

Nestedir took a deep breath, scanned the horizon for the umpteenth time ‘yes, we’re still in the mountains _behind_ Gondolin, a feat I would have not though possible`, and approached Sarendil.

`Let me get this straight`, he started. `You got attached to one of the children and so keep sneaking to meet them, teach the child Quenya and now are drawing a story for him? To cheer _him_ up?`. He looked closer and exploded. `And you are drawing it right now? What do you mean, `Nestedir, swelled and started shouting like a madman. `And what are those mediocre drawings? Is that _thing_ with a fish head flailing two sticks supposed to be _me_? Stop writing everything.`

* * *

** Fragment with unknown author, possibly Brethildir. **

_Many meetings_

If magnets point unerringly north, Voronwë has an inner magnet that unerringly points us to the cartographers’ camp. It is the fourth time we stumbled upon them in as many weeks. After the first two meetings, we kind of got used to it. They are well prepared and seem to be non-combatant. They are more like a clan of misfits trying to survive by going away from others than bandits. There are all sorts of people that I am sure do not fit in their society, starting with the head cartographer who insists on measuring everything and putting tents and everything else at certain distances from each other, and who knows if things are wrong even by a centimetre. Such skills are rare in humans.

We have many wounded and no more herbs, ointments and bandages. Tuor decides we might as well stop and trade with them while we recover from our last `adventure`, as he puts it in front of Eärendil .

* * *

** Fragment with unknown author. **

_In which Tuor recounts his happy childhood_

Arien must have hit his head. Desperate to take Eärendil ’s mind away from what happened and from his sickness, Tuor has decided that the best way is to recount anecdotes from his childhood. Things are all right when he talks of the dogs, their names, adventures, training. Eärendil listens, gasps, and laughs. But then, Tuor starts inserting his own adventures, and while his child sees them as one big adventure, having Haradrim chase you, beat you and make your life miserable is not funny. Even if Tuor recounts it as one big joke after another. Even though we cannot help but chuckle as well. Idril’s face got stormy and Nestedir’s knuckles are white on his sword hilt. His escape from his capture, aided by his faithful dogs is remarkable in the way it’s presented. He would make a great children’s author who gives nightmare to adults.

* * *

** Fragment with unknown author. **

_In which Pengolodh snaps_

Pengolodh is more and more disturbing when he sees people write. Until now, he had looked at us intently, trying to make us feel guilty. Right now, he seems to have had enough, and despite Nestedir’s interdiction, he snatches my pen and paper and starts scribbling. I look over and he seems to be writing in code. His code is codified by his trembling hand and soon, sure enough, by fresh blood seeping from his cuts. The blade must have been cursed, since his wounds have barely healed in two weeks. ( **Fragment of illegible scribbling with rusty blotches, blood** ). And I am writing this because I fought Pengolodh over the ownership of my journal. He punched me but since his hand is injured, he did nothing but add injury to injury. I have never seen him so violent.

* * *

_In which Tuor gets lost with Voronwë_

**Missing fragment. Pages too damaged to reconstruct. Analysis of saved samples revealed burns, mud, blood, glue, and other unidentifiable materials embedded in the paper. We can only conclude it was quite the adventure.**

* * *

** The next fragments, despite appearing in the same compilation, are definitely not written by the elves, but by men who met them. Authorship is unknown. **

_In which cartographers get bored, bruised up and bemused_

These weird people keep jumping on us out of nowhere. One moment they are like spirits, silent and merging with the surroundings, next second they are painfully bright, their voices like thunder, demanding our Maps. We should ta-….

* * *

_In which cartographers strike back_

They keep asking us for healing herbs and bandages. We are almost out, and even though they assure us they will give them back and have given us some wondrous things for them, I am still sceptical. I do not know why they do not kill us and take things by force. We are not so skilled or so many to protect ourselves. And we keep meeting with the weirdest timing. At least Little Sparrow is happy when he sees them. One of them, the one with a puckering scar over his left side of his face that also ruined his eye is his new best friend. He found him while Little Sparrow was wandering and got lost. Now he sticks to that warrior like glue. It is good a respected warrior tolerates him.

Even so, we must do something, so we gave them our _specialty dishes._ If they don’t run for the bushes shitting fire-bricks soon, I might be forced to acknowledge them as not so bad.

The silver-haired one with two missing fingers on his left hand catches my eye, smirks and asks for seconds. Little Sparrow’s friend is desperate enough to try our ale. His eyes are watering and I feel satisfaction bubbling in my chest.

* * *

** Fragment without title. Author unknown, possibly Pengolodh. **

After fifteen days in which we spiral further away from the main objective, we found ourselves close to a forest, location uncertain. The Cartographers were supposed to come through here at some point apparently, so Sarendil went with Brethildir to find his new friends. They sounded the alarm, and Larcaion came running, announcing that the group had been murdered and Sarendil went to search for survivors. The cartographers had split in two to cover more ground. Brethildir gives more news. There were orcs. Among the dead were the head cartographer and Little Sparrow, dead for ten days. Lalaith, the girl with eidetic memory, managed to escape and went back to the main camp.

According to her, the orcs came and found the gifts from Gondolodrim and started questioning. The head cartographer refused to give details and pissed them off so much, he was killed immediately with a mace to the head. `His head split like a ripe melon`, Lalaith had said, shuddering. Little Sparrow’s aunt told Sarendil every muffled thump makes her scream, and seeing any round objects makes her vomit. She can’t stand the smell of blood from fresh meat so they had to put her separately. Sizzling sounds also makes her cower.

Nestedir’s face darkens the more he hears from Brethildir’s report. In the end he declares the environment unsafe, and orders a hunt. He ties Little Sparrow’s bracelet on the hilt, `Violence is ~~not~~ the answer` written in colourful knot language clashing with the hilt’s forbidding black, and stalks forward, anger rolling from him in waves. 

* * *

**Fourth Age, 1486, winter**

‘I am sorry, Moldin`, says Nöddaç, `but your thesis was rejected. It has been deemed unsafe to make such statements during the current situation`.

Moldin bites his lip and shakes in impotent rage.

`After all this research, they refuse to listen?` he almost shouts. For once he does not care his voice is shaking, does not mind he is crying.

Nöddaç looks at him pityingly. `It was to be expected. And they do have a point. Your thesis is quite speculative in certain points. We’ll never know the full truth, since elves have departed these shores long ago.`

`May I leave sir?` Moldin asks in a controlled voice, imitating his professor’s careful enunciation.

`Yes. I will keep your thesis and maybe one day we will be able to present it. Who knows, in a couple of decades it will be all right.` Nöddaç smiles sadly.

`Thank you sir`, replies Moldin quietly.

`Good day to you, Mister Adûnabêl.`

`I am Moldin, sir.` He replies quietly. `Always have been`.

* * *

**Meanwhile in Valinor, unknown location....**

Sarendil climbed the slope whistling. On his arm was a frayed rope bracelet woven in clumsy quenya knots. On the top, Brethildir was waiting next to a small camp fire with a pot of spicy Baba Ghanoush bubbling gently over it. He was strumming his harp in in what seemed to be an eastern song.

`Took you long enough`, Brethildir said. `The pot almost boiled over waiting for you.`

`I hope you haven't put a whole packet of fire-peppers.` said Sarendil.

`And miss seeing you running for the bushes? it's practically tradition at this point`, smirked Brethildir. 'Why is Nestedir not here?`

`He said he has better things to do.` answered Sarendil despondedly.

`Yes, he made a new sword in eastern style with the hilt covered in sharkskin and silk knots. He replicated Little Sparrow's design perfectly. He keeps it on display since yesterday, and there are many rumors but nobody dares to ask what the message really means.` replied Brethildir. `He will come soon`, he added gently plucking at the chords.

`What about Voronwë ?` asked Sarendil, sitting crosslegged next to the pot.

Brethildir snorted. `He probably got lost again. Who knows where he’ll find himself next. 

Sarendil stood up, looked to the horizon and then to his bracelet. `Maybe he finds lost roads. I too, sometimes wish…`

`The road has ended for us, friend`, said Brethildir.

`May we meet our friends again on an unknown road`, Sarendil murmured, and sat down to watch the sunset with his friend.


End file.
